My Kind Of Town
by Cruxifixus
Summary: A short drabble, Trapper has made it stateside.


**My Kind of Town**

_Disclaimer: I do not own MASH or any of its characters, I just like to mess with 'em :)_

_'Now this could only happen_

_To a guy like me,_

_And only happen_

_In a town like this._

_So may I say to each of you_

_Most gratefully,_

_As I throw each one of you_

_A kiss'._

_Frank Sinatra _

A muffled voice sounded through the air, biting at the corners of Trapper's dream. He sighed and swallowed deeply as he opened his eyes, blurred shapes knocking their way into his brain. Trap could now feel the cold firmness on the bus window he had rested his head upon as he slept. The voice sounded again.

"Grand Central, end of the line, everybody change please" the well-dressed conductor walked past Trappers seat and adjusted his pocket watch, the light gold of the casing shining in the bright sunlight.

"End of the line son" He smiled down at Trapper's still lingering mugginess.

"Yeah" Trap breathed, smiling half-heartedly and more so to himself.

He ran a hand across his face and felt something drop from his lap to the floor between his feet. Bending forward, he reached down and scooped up his open wallet. A faded photograph poked from a tear in the black lining, dogged-eared and creased; the occupants were all too familiar.

Passing his fingers over the faces in the photograph, Trapper sighed as he heard the buses engine grind back into life. He gripped the duffel bag on the seat beside him, walked the length of the aisle and stepped out into the warm July day.

There it was; the real world.

Trapper had always thought that the city of Chicago would have changed in his absence, like an abandoned lover who loses hope and flees with a heart in pieces. But no, nothing had changed. It was as if he had been to sleep one night and woken the next morning, no hint that he had lost two years of his civilian life in keeping a generation of young Americans alive long enough to get back home. Serving his country, every night before he slept, Trapper would ask himself if any of it was really worth the end of 200,000 human lives.

Reaching into his back pocket, Trapper slipped in the black wallet; the photograph still held in a firm grip. His eyes flicked to a telephone box across the road, the thought of calling his wife to let her know that he was back, alive and in one piece crossed his mind. Ever since receiving his points and subsequent discharge papers, Trapper had toyed with the idea of not telling Louise he was coming home. If he had, it would have been the heroes welcome, his twin girls in their Sunday best holding on tightly onto their mother's hands. Smiling, waving, crying, it just wouldn't have felt right; Trapper didn't want that. As far as he was concerned, he was no hero but a witness to just what the brutality of the human condition could do; how it could rip a life apart. So he didn't write or even call. As far as Louise McIntyre knew, her husband was still being held in the service of the U.S Government.

Smiling at the idea of his wife, standing at the kitchen sink, her gaze absently examining the crab grass springing up under the shade of the ancient oak tree, John picked his way between the steady streams of cars and crossed the road. Stepping onto the pavement, he caught his reflection in the store window in front of him. 'Boy' he thought, we really looked like he had been dragged through the war backwards. He was defiantly thinner then he had been upon leaving the States almost two years previously. His greyer and more lines around his eyes but it was still Trapper John McIntyre.

Winding his way through the people and crowds of shops, Trapper let his feet led him. He didn't even think about where he was going; an invisible force was guiding him home. The houses in his neighbourhood hadn't changed; it was almost as if he hadn't been away. He heard children's voices, raised in play carrying across the road; their bikes abandoned at the side of the road.

John wandered along the tree-lined avenue, the dappled sunlight catching the epaulettes of the last uniform he would ever wear. The smell of cut grass hung in the air, heavily perfuming the day. He felt nerves growl in his stomach as he approached the all too familiar house on the corner, his house; his home.

Stopping outside, he couldn't quite believe he was finally home. Walking up the freshly brushed pathway, John climbed the steps of the front porch and came to a halt at the front door. Placing his bag at his feet, he adjusted his tie, straightened his cap and raised to hand to knock at the door. His fist felt like lead as it trembled, knocking at the white pine door. Stepping back, he heard footsteps from the hallway as an all too familiar figure appeared behind the crinkly glass door panel. Taking a deep breath, McIntyre let a smile slip across his lips as the front door opened.

**THE END**

A/N Enjoyed?? Please review :) Oh, and add me to your favourite authors below if you want to read more xx


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